The sheriff was trim and taut and exuded confident competence. In her mid-fifties, she had been sheriff for more than ten years and hadn’t had a challenger since the first election. To most people, she was intimidating. But I’d seen her early one morning, dressed in an old bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, hair mussed, while cuddling my purring cat.

“Eddie’s fine,” I said. “Stop by sometime, I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

A small smile curved her lips briefly. “Maybe I’ll do that. I heard you asking about Pug Mattock. And the missing Conti.”

“You’re familiar with Vittorio Conti?”

A grin flashed past so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d actually seen it. “I am now,” she said. “And here’s a fun fact for you.”

I blinked. The sheriff was giving me insider information? “How fun is it?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, but also not wanting to look any more stupid than I actually was.

“Too subjective for me to answer.” The sheriff pushed herself off the doorframe. “So here’s the fact. I believe you know Ian Breece? I’m told he owns a Conti sculpture. Has done for years.”

And, before my brain could form the words, “Wait, what?” she gave me a nod and was gone.

*   *   *

My brain occupied itself for the first half of my walk to the library with trying to figure out how Sheriff Richardson had learned that Ian Breece owned a Conti. Did sheriffs have secret resources for modern art knowledge? Probably not, but you never knew. Or had Ash actually taken me seriously when I’d talked about the Contis and Ian Breece, and he’d talked to Ian, learned that he owned a Conti, and told the sheriff?

As if.

By my commute’s midway point I’d reconciled myself to never knowing for sure how the sheriff had come by that knowledge and, instead, shifted to figuring out how to make the most of that new information.

The first conclusion was that Ian, when meeting with Pug at the Round Table, had been trying to sell his own sculpture, not one stolen from the Valeras. This made sense, in light of the Breeces’ unfortunate financial troubles.

But that didn’t mean the deal hadn’t taken a bad turn. Maybe Ian had just pretended to sell the sculpture; had instead taken Pug’s money and killed him, thus keeping the sculpture and trying to sell it again to make the money all over again. And again. Or Ian might have sold the sculpture to Pug, returned later to steal it back. Or—

“Doesn’t matter,” I said out loud, startling the small black squirrel who had started scooting across the sidewalk. “Sorry,” I called to it, feeling a little silly for apologizing to a squirrel, but also feeling it was the right thing to do.